


A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by Meadowlark27



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, lethal doses of bickering, sassy!Peeta is my drug of choice, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadowlark27/pseuds/Meadowlark27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss and Peeta have hated each other for years. But when her mother and his father announce their engagement, Katniss realizes the fight has only just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed another WiP like a hole in the head, so I did everyone (or just me, very selfishly) a favor and wrote the whole thing before publishing Chapter 1. So, there are four chapters and an epilogue, all of which are finished.
> 
> I still have some minor tweaking to do with the other installments, which is why they're not all here right now, but they will be soon! No tortuous waiting periods on this one, cross my heart and hope to die.
> 
> Major kudos to roseymama and aihodineverlark for revisions and encouragements, as well as to papofglencoe for working her magic on what would've otherwise been a sloppy pile of baby food. This story would be nothing without these stellar ladies.

Prim’s still trying to interpret mom’s cryptic text when we arrive at the restaurant.

 

“Think she’s taking us to Disney World?” she asks.

 

I lean over the console, swatting the iPhone out of her hands. “Give it a rest, Prim. She’ll tell us whatever she has to tell us in five minutes.”

 

About an hour ago, our phones lit up with the same message: _Be at Sae’s at 7:00. Have something to announce._ Prim’s imagination immediately went haywire, but I just shrugged it off, as I continue to do now. Secretly, I’m grateful Prim’s wigging out—her meltdown has forced me to be the mature Everdeen sister. Otherwise _I’d_ be the one thumbing through my inbox, authoring over-exaggerated scenarios in my head until it exploded.

 

I’m calm as a clam as we duck through the front door and scan the café, searching for Mom’s blonde bob. I find it almost immediately. However, accompanying her is a pair of other blond heads poking out of the booth.

 

And _there_ goes my calm.

 

In just a heartbeat I’m at the table, digging half-moons into the checkered tablecloth with trembling fingers. “What’s going on?”

 

 “Hey, girls,” Mr. Mellark greets, a pacifying smile spreading over his lips. “I’m so glad you could join us.” He slides over, and Prim drops beside him on the bench, offering a greeting. I don’t hear what she says, though—my pulse is a jackhammer in my ears, my eyes drilling into the blue ones that rake over me. When our gazes lock, my skin blazes. The revulsion festering in the blue is something I feel in my stomach, chest, and veins, unfolding and spreading like poison. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this, but the heat is even more blistering now, because I know what’s coming. I see, in my peripheral, the guilt that paints my mom’s cheeks with a blush, the nervous bob of Mr. Mellark’s throat.

 

My eyes don’t withdraw from the blue as I sit beside my mother, the anger becoming dizzying.

 

“I bet you girls are hungry.” The voice jars me, and I jolt as Mom lays her index on the menu before me. “The waitress should be around soon.”

 

But I can’t look down. I can’t look away from _him_ , who must’ve decrypted our parents’ secret, too. I know this from his tension-screwed jaw, and in the unusual sharpness of his eyes, carving his resentment into my skin like switchblades.

 

Peeta Mellark, who’s also a junior at Panem high, has been my sworn enemy since we were eleven. Before, we’d coexisted just fine. But then, one day, he shoved a loaf of burnt bread into my backpack. What pissed me off wasn’t the charcoal-covered flakes of crust that stained my books, but the symbolism behind the loaf itself—my father was a firefighter, a courageous, selfless man, who hadn’t made it home from work the week before. He’d died trying to save a man in a warehouse explosion. And Peeta Mellark had the fucking nerve to scorch a loaf of bread and plant it in my backpack only five days after the fire.

 

Things wouldn’t be so bad between us if he would’ve apologized, or at least owned up to it, but when I confronted him in the schoolyard, he’d feigned innocence and stammered out a pathetic, _You looked hungry._

 

He looked even more pathetic with the blackberry-stain impression of my knuckles under his eye.

 

Things between us were bad then, but they’ve only gotten worse in the past year with the unlikely pairing of our parents. Nothing against Mr. Mellark—while he and his son share the same eyes, full lips, and broad shoulders ideal for hefting sacks of flour, Peeta’s malice speaks to the late Mrs. Mellark’s genome. That bad seed was planted and dutifully nourished by only her.

 

So I have no problem with Mr. Mellark. But my beef with his son is enough to negate any admiration for the guy—I want him gone. I want nothing to do with him.

 

But by the way Mom holds her left hand under the table, fingers calculatedly shielded by the tablecloth, I know his place in my life—and by default his son’s—is only about to take root.

 

“Just say it,” I say, or whisper, or snarl.

 

“Excuse me?” Mom says.

 

The faux-innocence hauls me back to the schoolyard, back to being a foot from eleven-year-old Peeta, the burnt loaf shoved against his ribcage. _You looked hungry._ And then: _What? That’s not what I meant, Katniss._

 

So pitiful.

 

“You’re getting married,” I bark at Mom, though my whole body is angled toward Peeta. “Just say it and get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

 

“Katniss Everdeen, I don’t appreciate your tone of voice—”

 

“Sarah, it’s okay.”

 

It’s Mr. Mellark who says this, sympathy oozing from his pores like over-sprayed cologne. It swirls around me, thickens in my throat, until suddenly it’s blocking off my air supply. I can’t breathe.

 

“Katniss, Prim, Peeta—” he begins, leaning in. _Story time,_ _kids,_ the voice in my head sneers. _Once upon a time, the devil had a twisted sense of humor._

 

“Earlier today, I asked Sarah to marry me.” Mr. Mellark blinks at me, then at Peeta, then at Prim. “And she said yes.”

 

I knew it was coming, but my stomach still bottoms out anyway. A tempest starts brewing under the skin of my face, and I look to Peeta, finding lightning bolts electrifying his eyes, too. We watch each other. We glare. We hate each other. And we hate our parents for loving each other.

 

This is the only thing we share.

 

* * *

 

If my brain wasn’t too busy devising fictitious murder plots, I’d probably feel guilty for leaving everyone at the restaurant. But for now, I lie face-down on my mattress, trying to figure out how to become one with the blankets. I can’t be impacted by this hasty marriage if I’m only a piece of bedding.

 

In the kitchen, I hear a lock pop, then the staccato of pumps against lacquer, and then exasperated huffs. _So, Mom’s home._ I shove my face under my pillow just in time for my bedroom door to swing open.

 

“Your behavior tonight was completely unacceptable, Katniss.”

 

I moan gibberish into the pillow.

 

Cold air fingers through my hair as Mom yanks the pillow away, and I’m forced to look at her. “You know I hate Peeta,” I grunt.

 

“You know I love his father.” She purses her lips, taps her foot, folds her arms. Standard Mom pose—an uninspired cliché. I roll my eyes.

 

This makes her snap, and she leans closer, smacking my stomach with my pillow. “Selfishness doesn’t suit you, Katniss. You’re too old to be acting like a toddler.”

 

I rub my temples. “I just can’t stand him, okay? He made fun of me when Dad died.”

 

Her usual response to this accusation: _I’m sure it was a misunderstanding._

 

Today’s response to this accusation: “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

 

“Why can’t you be on _my_ side, Mom? Do you even care about my feelings?”

 

“Of _course_ I care about your feelings.” She hands me back my pillow, and I crush it to my ears. It’s a terrible substitute for earplugs, really, because I can still hear her saying, “But there just aren’t sides anymore.”

 

When she’s gone, I finally give the guilt permission to do a number on me. Mom was miserable for years following Dad’s death—eating, sleeping, and working became a pick-two-out-of-three scenario on a good day, and on others, she couldn’t do any of those. Mr. Mellark may not be my father, and may never be able to even half-fill his gargantuan shoes, but he’s good to Mom. He makes her happy.

 

And I want to be happy for her—really, I do. Eventually, in some ways, I’m sure I’ll let myself cave into that joy. But in other ways—in most ways—I’ll be an old redwood, and she’ll be a pinky finger. She’ll push and push, and not even my bark will shift.

 

Mom will marry Mr. Mellark. He’ll become my stepfather. He’ll become Prim’s stepfather. Peeta Mellark will become her stepson, and he will become Prim’s stepbrother. But he will remain nothing to me.

 

I push the guilt aside, letting fire burn wild between my ribs.

 

* * *

 

At school on Monday, I’m in the cafeteria with Madge when Peeta sits down two tables away. He doesn’t look at me, but his shoulders are arched as if attached to puppet strings, so I know he’s aware of my presence.

 

“He’s going to be my _brother,_ ” I groan to Madge, burying my face in my hands.

 

“It won’t be that bad. You’ll both be off to college in a year—maybe your parents won’t even have the wedding until after you graduate. Then you’ll only see him at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Just twice a year.”

 

“Which is two times too many.” I pluck at the noodles on my plate, my stomach too busy doing somersaults to work up an appetite. I feel the need to do something about the situation. “Still, you’re right. Think I should talk to her? You know, convince her to put a hold on things?”

 

Madge shrugs. That’s all the permission I need.

 

I swing my legs out from underneath the table, shoving my fists in the pocket of my father’s hunting jacket as I stand. Peeta’s sitting at the table with some of his douchey wrestling buddies, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet as I move behind him. When I tap him on the shoulder, he jolts.

 

Silence spreads over the table as Peeta turns.

 

“I need to talk to you,” I tell him.

 

The muscles of his jaw strain, but he nods. Not even waiting for him to stand, I stalk out of the cafeteria.

 

Peeta follows me to the shadowy nook under the stairs, thick arms folded stiffly over his chest. His fingers drum on his bicep. He’s not an incredibly tall guy, but he still has a few inches on me, and with shadows scored under his sharp cheekbones, he looks even more imposing.

 

I mirror him, crossing my arms.  “We’re going to do something about our parents.”

 

The corner of his mouth draws up in a humorless smile. “I’m not breaking them up, Katniss.” He cards his fingers through his hair, and his eyes grow sharper. “That’s low, even for you.”

 

Acid bubbles in my chest. “That’s not what I meant,” I snap. Then, I take a deep breath, stepping closer. “Look, Peeta. We graduate in a little over a year from now. Then we’re free to go where we want. I can go to state school, and you can go to a different continent. We won’t have to see each other much, even if our parents are married.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I want to convince them to hold off the wedding—at least until we’re out of the house. We’d kill each other if we were under the same roof.”

 

“I don’t know about _that_.” His brow lifts in provocation. “You might just punch me in the face. Nothing I can’t handle, apparently.”

 

At my side, my knuckles crack in a plea to plant more blackberries under his eye, but I hold back. I need his help. If we want our parents to delay their nuptials, we’ll have to come at them from all angles, not just my own. Grilled cheese doesn’t cook through if you don’t toast both sides.

 

“Just answer me this: Do you want to live in my house?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want me to live with you in the bakery?”

 

“ _God_ , no.”

 

“Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but usually when people get married, they move in together. So we’re all going to get pretty damn cozy unless we do something about it.”

 

His rubs his face, the skin of his cheeks waxed pink from his palms. I think this means I have him—what else could frustrate him more than agreeing with me?—until he shakes his head, stepping out from under the stairwell. Light replaces the shadows on his skin, highlighting the gold strands of his hair, the strokes of wintergreen in his irises. He looks like an angel, even if Satan has handwritten his DNA.

 

I hate him even more.

 

“They’re happy together, Katniss,” he says finally, holding his arms out at his sides. “It’s not my place to interfere. Unlike you, I’m not too self-absorbed to see that.”

 

Rage takes a box-cutter to my chest. I roll up on my toes, prepared to lunge, but he’s already turned around and headed back to the cafeteria before I can.

 

* * *

 

Without reinforcement, my begging does little to deter Mom.

 

“You need to sit down with Peeta,” she says, “and bury the hatchet.”

 

 “I’d first bury _him_.”

 

After all, it wasn’t just the loaf of bread, or the lack of apology. Every day after, he got worse—his cold avoidance turned into stony glares, which turned into snide comments, and finally, him pronouncing me vindictive, aggressive, and now, another notch: _self-absorbed_. I’m sure the conflict was exacerbated in part by my own spitefulness, but if he hadn’t mocked my pain in the first place, then we would’ve never had bad blood to begin with. My dad had just died, and though he didn’t lose his own mother until a year later, he should’ve known how much fucking pain I was in. Yet he didn’t care.

 

And neither does Mom, apparently, because she announces mid-April—only two weeks after the engagement—that she and Mr. Mellark are planning a small wedding in August. It’ll just be us kids, his parents, and a few close friends.

 

But this isn’t the worst news she has to break, and I know this because she takes me to the woods. These woods were a sanctuary for me and Dad, and now, they’re a sanctuary for just me. She knows this, and because the forest behind our house is technically city property, I can’t forbid her from joining me here whenever she thinks I’m in particular need of that refuge.

 

She sits on a rotting log. Reaches out a fragile hand. Asks me to join her. I just shake my head, leaning my shoulder into a nearby tree, since I take bad news better standing up.

 

She sighs. It’s long and hard, like all the stress in her forty-six years of life can be expelled in that one breath.

 

“Peeta agreed to be Todd’s best man. And I want you as my maid of honor.”

 

I lean harder into the bark, scanning the thicket for a brick, a baseball bat, a forgotten flashlight… any blunt object I can bash myself over the head with. “Are you _trying_ to start World War Three?”

 

“We’re trying to get you guys to work it out!” she says, pulling at the roots of her hair. “The Mellarks will soon be our family. Todd and I would like for you two to at _least_ be able to sit next to each other without the claws coming out.”

 

I shake my head, letting the tree trunk’s ragged veins dig into my flesh.

 

“You two are going to help us plan this wedding,” she continues. “You’re going to put your differences aside. You’re going to be mature adults.”

 

“But—”

 

“This is _not_ up for negotiation.” Her eyes are blazing; it’s the first time I’ve seen her this dogged about something, at least since before Dad died, and it startles me into compliance.

 

Once she stands and leaves me alone in the forest, I flatten my palm over my mouth and scream.

 

* * *

 

The week after school lets out, Peeta confronts me at Sae’s café. I’m sitting at one of the pub tables with my back to the lobby, hunched over my laptop as I scroll through Etsy pages of bridesmaid dresses, when suddenly, he slips onto the stool beside me.

 

“Well, this is not what I expected,” he says, a degree of amusement sewn into his words that makes me think for a moment that the voice isn’t Peeta Mellark’s. He’s never lighthearted around me.

 

But it is him. And that same amusement is bolted into the corners of his mouth, and in his eyes, which flare with streaks of color like the flipside of a CD.

 

I square my shoulders. “What’s not what you expected?”

 

“Seeing you working on the wedding,” he says. He’s wearing an Orioles cap, which he takes off as he settles into his seat, fingers detangling his sweat-matted curls. “I assumed you were still trying to throw a wrench in the works. You know, book a rat-infested venue, buy a wedding dress two sizes too small—”

 

“I know this may come as a surprise, but I want to see my Mom happy.”

 

“That _does_ come as a surprise.”

 

I snatch his Orioles cap by the bill and fling it over the table, launching it straight against the cinderblock wall. A small noise of incredulity bursts behind his teeth, but he says nothing. Just slips off the stool to retrieve it. Meanwhile, I arch closer to my laptop, the wayward strands of hair that’ve escaped my braid falling around my face. A curtain. A shield. I crack my knuckles as they hover over the keyboard.

 

“Okay, look,” he begins as he settles back into his seat beside me. His voice prickles the shell of my ear, irksome as a gnat’s buzz—if only I could swat him away. “This may also come as a surprise,” he continues, “but I didn’t come here to antagonize you.”

 

“And stray from your life’s work?” I splay my fingers over my heart. “Someone, alert the press!”

 

“Sarah told Dad that I could find you here,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “As much as this pains me to suggest, we really should coordinate our planning. We don’t have to always be together, but we can at least figure out how to allocate responsibilities—you know, divide the effort—”

 

I lift a brow. “And you couldn’t just explain this over email?”

 

My words tug the corners of his mouth down, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Katniss. No one’s paying you to be such an ass all the time.”

 

“Takes one to know one,” I spit out.

 

“Can you just let up for two seconds? I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

 

“The right thing?” What the hell does he mean by that?

 

His glare bruises me, eyes heavy with pulverizing exasperation.

 

“You know why our parents are having us spearhead their wedding arrangements, right?” On the counter, he curls his fingers into the top of his baseball cap, crinkling it like notebook paper. “They want us to get along. And while nothing but a personal visit from the good Lord himself could make us friends, I think we owe it to your mom and my dad to be civil. Especially leading up to their wedding, but even after it, too.”

 

I’d rather shove my nose in a beehive than admit he’s right, so instead I sit in silence, eyes pointed at the screen of my laptop but entirely unfocused. As much as it pains me to think of our coexistence, I’m not so blinded by hatred that I can’t see the benefits. I’m ridiculously stubborn, but I’m not an idiot.

 

Mr. Mellark is a good man, and for the most part, my mom is a good woman, too. Both deserve happiness, as does my sister. This bad blood between me and Peeta, when spilled over the walls of our home, would be poison to everyone, us included.

 

I hate Peeta Mellark. Peeta Mellark hates me. And while I’ll never be able to forgive him for what he’s done, if he’s willing to lay down his weapons for a cause that’s bigger than us, I suppose I can, too.

 

But I’m keeping the armor.

 

“Never friends,” I clarify after a long pause, voice thin as wispy as mesh fabric. “But… civil.”

 

“We don’t have to like each other.”

 

“Good.” I purse my lips. “Because I don’t. I _won’t._ ”

 

“Feeling’s mutual.”

 

I nod, feeling the broiling weight of his stare on my shoulder, cheek, neck. I lift my palm to rub the tendons there, fingers serving as a shield.

 

“So,” I say.

 

“So…”

 

Finally, I muster the nerve to look at him. His lips are parted slightly, tongue curled around his canines in expectation.

 

I sigh. “Alright, where do we begin?”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s past dinnertime when we finally tie the bow on our preliminary plans. We’ve arranged it so that contact from here on out will be minimal—who thought Peeta Mellark could do something right?

 

To adjourn, we give each other stiff nods and stand. I fall in behind Peeta, my eyes unintentionally trailing down to the back of his jeans. My throat catches as I notice a red smear, deep as cherry stains, behind his left knee.

 

“Are you bleeding?”

 

He pauses in the doorway and turns. Scrunches his brows up into a frown. “What?”

 

“Your jeans are stained.”

 

He lifts his leg to inspect it, and immediately the worried expression gives way to one of amusement. He steps out onto the terrace. “Just paint from earlier.”

 

I fall silent as my desire to be apathetic around him and my natural curiosity duke it out, but once we’re in the parking lot, the latter wins. With our bodies sandwiched between his pickup and my hatchback, I ask, “Painting a room or something?”

 

I cringe, waiting for him to say he’s working on a service project— _Oh, you know, just renovating houses in the Seam, since those poor, underprivileged folks, like you, need all the help they can get_ —or something else superficially selfless.

 

But he just shakes his head, jingling his keys in the pocket of his athletic shorts. “No, just painting.”

 

“A…”

 

“…canvas?” His brow lifts. “Recreationally?”

 

He’s got to be shitting me. Macho wrestler and dickwad-to-historic-portions Peeta Mellark is a painter?

 

In response to my silence, Peeta rubs his mouth in disbelief, leaving the flesh plump and flushed. Red as grapefruit, or a kiss.

 

“You know," he continues slowly, "it’s a totally human thing to have hobbies.”

 

“I know,” I snap, not sure why I’m blushing. To assert myself I add, “I just assumed yours would be less… _frilly_. You know, something more along the lines of cyberbullying or stealing money from dog shelters.”

 

“Nope, don’t do any of that.” His fingers curl around the handle of his truck. “Those aren’t _frilly_ enough for me.”

 

I’m not sure what to say, so I stand still with my arms folded as he slips into his truck. When he pulls away, I can’t bring myself to move.

 

After six years of loathing Peeta Mellark with every fiber of my being, how had I not known he was a painter?

 

My chest twitches and flutters—an infant sparrow, trying and failing to fly—when I realize how little I know about him. I know he’s extremely empathy deficient. I know he’s got a silver tongue and a penchant for mischief that makes that dangerous. I know he’s a wrestler. I know he’s a baker. Now, I know he’s a painter.

 

I scrape the corners of my memory for other things, but I come up empty-handed.

 

* * *

 

“I wanted to kill him every single second he was next to me,” I tell Prim that night, “but I didn’t. Gave him plenty of well-deserved sass but no mortal wounds. I should get a fucking medal.”

 

She stretches out across my duvet like a cat in the sun, uncurling her wiry arms, knuckles knocking against my bedframe. “I’ll give you one, but only if he survives through the wedding.”

 

I lie down opposite her, propping my feet on my pillow. My braid dangles off the edge of the mattress—I let it swing, steady as a pendulum, vacillating back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm of it lulls me into deeper thought, bringing me back to that conversation with Peeta between our cars. Everything about that moment had been so strange. The triumph of unwanted curiosity, the revelation of something about him that _didn’t_ make me want to invert his nose with my fist for once. And then, the tingling in my cheeks at the sight of his flushed lips. Such an odd reaction. I just shake my head, my braid resuming its steady oscillations, dismissing my response as more instinctive than anything else.

 

But I can’t stop thinking about the paint on his jeans, the words in his mouth, the upward twitch of his eyebrow. _No, just painting._

 

I flip over on the bed, lining up my face with Prim’s.

 

“Did you know Peeta likes to paint?”

 

Her face flattens like I’ve just asked her how to do addition. “Of course,” she says. “He’s the one who did all the artwork they have hanging up in the bakery.”

 

“What artwork?”

 

I haven’t been inside that building for ages, just like how Peeta’s avoided my house all this time. It’s a matter of domain. Sae’s, the schoolyard, the strip mall—those are all no man’s land. But we have an unspoken agreement to never go within twenty yards of where the other person sleeps.

 

Prim studies my face, her expression restrained enough not to betray her mind, but not so much that I can’t see her gears whirring. It worries me.

 

“I guess you wouldn’t have seen them, since Mrs. Mellark would’ve never let that stuff be hung up when she was alive, and you haven’t gone in there in…”

 

“Years.”

 

“Right.” Her lips purse in hesitation. “You know, he’s—he’s really good.”

 

I shrug it off, rolling my eyes. I can't let her think I care. Because I don’t. _Definitely_ don’t care. “That’s not a surprise.” I pick at my nails, affecting disinterest. “I mean, he ices all those damn cakes day in, day out. It’d be pretty pitiful if he didn’t have any artistic abilities after all that.”

 

The tiniest of smiles starts to brighten the corners of her mouth. _Uh-oh_. Dangerous.

 

“What?”

 

“You two talked about his art,” she said.

 

“Barely. He had paint on his jeans—I was curious.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“I insulted him for _at least_ fifty percent of that conversation. I still hate him.”

 

“But you hate him _less_.”

 

“I’ve decided maybe he’s a distant relative of Satan rather than a direct descendant, so I suppose you could say that.”

 

The smile cracks wider. I want to grip her by the shoulders and shake her like a damn polaroid.

 

_Don’t you go there, Prim,_ I think, right before she says, “You’ll be best friends by the wedding. I’m calling it now.”

 

Oh, _hell_ no.

 

I shove her off the edge of the bed. She falls to the carpet with a dull thud, her mischievous laughter flooding the room, flooding my lungs, my stomach, my brain. I rub my temples to alleviate the tension. But the headache, as excruciating as it was sudden, doesn’t budge.

 

God, even just _thinking_ about being friends with Peeta gives me flu symptoms. What makes Prim think the real deal would be anything but lethal?

 

* * *

 

I don’t let myself think about Peeta much—since I don’t want early-onset menopause—but he creeps into my mind whenever I let my guard down. There’s something unexpectedly dissatisfying in how little I know about him—it feels like my hatred of him has been cheapened, or discredited. How can I hate him as much as I do when I don’t know him?

 

This always routes my thoughts to the flipside of things: How much does Peeta Mellark know about me? Clearly, he knows I have a short fuse and am as stubborn as a red sauce stain. But I doubt he knows about my woods, where I used to hike on Sundays with my dad, and now go to alone. I doubt he knows which subjects are my favorite, what kind of books I love, or how I secretly worship the cheese buns that Prim brings back from the bakery sometimes. And I _know_ he doesn’t know that I can sing.

 

We go two weeks with no interactions deeper than a few texts at a time, which does wonders for my blood pressure but nothing for my curiosity. It’s an uncomfortable paradox, but keeping my distance, rather than seeking him out to have my questions answered, is clearly the preferable arrangement. At least, that’s what I think until he shows up in my driveway out of the blue.

 

“There’s a church,” he says after rolling down his window, reaching over to unlock the passenger door. “It’s small. Quaint. Cheap. Perfect for the ceremony. We should go check it out.”

 

“Shouldn’t our parents be the ones to do this?”

 

“The man who books events will be gone by the time they both get off work.”

 

“And… you can’t do this alone?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “We need a second opinion on this kind of thing. Stop being a baby.”

 

A pout threatens my lips, but I suck them together and swallow it down. While the second-to-last thing I want to do is be in the same vehicle as him, the last thing I want to do is prove him right. My decision is made for me.

 

* * *

 

We bicker the whole way to the church. I suppose this is better than awkward silence, but by the time we’re in the parking lot, I’m fantasizing a little too hard about whacking him in the throat.

 

“I’m _not_ giving a toast,” I insist as he kills the engine.

 

“It’s your _mother_.” He says this in a tone that makes _him_ sound like my mother. “You have to give a toast. I mean, you’re her maid of honor, for God’s sake!”

 

I point at the church in front of us. “ _Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain_.”

 

“You’re insufferable,” he says, shaking his head.

 

At the top of the steps we’re greeted by a man, his wrinkle-puckered shirt and five o’clock shadow making me think he’s here for an AA meeting. But when he introduces himself as Haymitch Abernathy, Peeta follows him inside—he must be the right guy. Well.

 

Haymitch shows us around, bestowing on us nothing more than a sullen comment here and there. He first takes us to the youth lounge, which is where the bridal party would get ready; then we head to the courtyard, which could potentially hold the reception.

 

Finally, Haymitch brings us to the chapel. It’s stuffy and only has room for thirty guests tops, but the collage of stained glass along the back wall purifies the light in a way I don’t quite understand but fall in love with immediately.

 

The low price is just the cherry on top.

 

“We’ll take it.” It’s only after I say this that I look to Peeta. Thankfully, I find nothing less than approval there.

 

Haymitch grumbles something about paperwork before lumbering away, leaving me and Peeta alone in the chapel. I slide into a pew. “I like this place,” I say.

 

Peeta slumps in the seat on the opposite side of the aisle, folding his hands in his lap. “I think my dad will, too.”

 

I look at him, watching his softened gaze work over the panels of stained glass. Bright reds, warm greens, electric blues all twist the light into a kaleidoscope of color, which reaches out to his face and kisses its angles and planes. I find myself studying the sharp edge of his jaw, imposing but steady, and the slope of his nose, and the swell of his lips, and the golden lashes that are so long they tangle.

 

I may detest every cell in Peeta Mellark’s body, but I’m not afraid to admit that they make up one hell of a beautiful boy. He’s always been attractive, just like he’s always been a royal ass.

 

“What are you thinking about?” I ask. “The wedding? The colors? All of your sins against mankind?”

 

He chuckles, rubbing his jaw before focusing on the pulpit, and brings his hands together in prayer. “Heavenly father, please forgive me for associating with Katniss. It’s not her fault she’s the human incarnation of the seven deadly sins.”

 

I lean back, arching my spine along the lip of the pew. “Bite me.”

 

“In God’s house?” His face blanches in faux horror.

 

“Oh, since when do you care about propriety?”

 

“I don’t know—longer than the girl who uses her fists instead of words.”

 

Well. Okay.

 

Pursing my lips, I focus on anything and everything but Peeta. The pulpit. The stained glass. The bronze rods of the pipe organ, the musical intestines of the chapel. Anything, _anything_ but Peeta. Yet, out of the corner of my eye, I can see his stare almost as clearly as I can feel the weight of it.

 

“Maybe I use my fists because I’m just not good with words,” I say after a while, all the playfulness stamped out of my voice. “That’s probably why I spend so much time in the woods. Trees are pretty cool about awkward silences. You know what _isn’t_ cool with awkward silences? A wedding party expecting a kick-ass toast from the bride’s daughter.”

 

“Oh, so that’s what this is about.” He reaches behind his head, ruffling his blonde curls. “Don’t ever expect me to say this again, but… maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’re fine with words. I mean, you put up a pretty good fight whenever we go at it,” he says, and then a smile plays at his lips. “Though we both know _I’m_ always the winner.”

 

“And for _once_ , I thought you could go twenty seconds without making the situation about you.”

 

He cranks his hands into air guns, shooting at the air between us. “Bazinga!”

 

I shake my head, but I have nothing to say. My chest feels suddenly and surprisingly bare, split in half like a pomegranate cracked open. And it’s not until I’m floored by the ache of this gaping chasm that I realize I’ve shared something of me, something of _consequence_ , with Peeta Mellark. I don’t give myself time to consider if this was what I even wanted before I grow angry with myself, leaning forward and slating my forehead against the pew in front of me.

 

“Hey.” There’s something softer in his voice when he speaks again, and it makes me queasy. This thing between us was easier when we were unwelcoming and cold.

 

“Say something mean to me,” I say, keeping my voice flat so it doesn’t sound like I’m begging.

 

“Um… you smell worse than this chapel does?”

 

My neck snaps as I look up at him, cringing. “Seriously?”

 

“No.” He chuckles. “We’ll have to Febreze the shit out of this place before the ceremony.” When I don’t say anything, he swings his legs around the corner of his pew and plants his feet in the aisle. “You’re going to give a toast, Katniss. And you’re going to do fine. You may not have Obama’s charisma, but you’re a passable speaker. I guess.”

 

I roll my eyes. “Legendary pep talk.”

 

“And hey—worse comes to worse, you could just sing for them. That’ll woo them.”

 

Ice slithers up my spine, my whole body going tense. Did he just say I could sing for them? “What are you talking about?” I hiss.

 

“Your singing?”

 

I flinch. “How do you know I sing?”

 

This is something he can’t know. My voice is a personal secret, one that my father was supposed to take with him to the grave. When Prim was younger, I’d sing for her—but since the fire, the only captive audience for my voice has been my trees.

 

Heat floods me at the thought of Peeta knowing this about me. This secret is not his.

 

As I bristle, Peeta holds his hands up like a zookeeper approaching an almost-tranquilized gorilla. “The assembly,” he explains, voice drawn out in caution. “We were five, and you—you sang the Valley Song. Don’t you remember?”

 

I remember the Valley Song. I don’t remember the assembly.

 

“You were wearing a red dress. You had your hair in two braids instead of one. And you sang the Valley Song in front of everyone. Sounded like a bird.” Startled by the fondness dressing his own words, he stiffens a little, coughing. “In my defense, this was before you became a major butthead. You can’t blame me for thinking you sang well.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I still hate you, you know.”

 

“I can’t believe I sang in front of everyone,” I whisper.

 

“You’ve always been a spirited little fucker.”

 

When I look at him, his eyebrows are raised, like he’s waiting for something. I realize too late that he’s looking for an insult.

 

“Guess not anymore. You’ve gotten soft on me, Everdeen.” He smiles slyly. “I can’t blame you, though—no one can resist me forever.”

 

“Oh, _gross._ ” I curl my hands around the spine of a hymnal, debating whether or not I should chuck it at him. Before I can decide, however, the doors to the chapel swing open, and in tramps Haymitch with the paperwork.

 

_I’ll get you later,_ I mouth across the aisle.

 

His eyes say what his mouth doesn’t have to.

 

_I’ll be waiting._

 

* * *

 

But I don’t get him later. I don’t even have the chance. We interact sparingly throughout June and July—most of the work can be done by one person, and anything that needs more consultation is usually dealt with by Mom or Todd. So our exchanges are kept to a minimum, and I remind myself, over and over again, how much of a blessing this is.

 

In mid-July, the announcement is made that Todd will be moving into our house to be with Mom. However, Mr. Mellark clarifies that the apartment above the bakery will still serve as office space for his business affairs, and the Mellark sons, including Peeta—who will be eighteen by the wedding—will continue to live there, too. “With all the rooms we have up there,” Todd tells Prim and me, “there isn’t much point in leaving them empty to cram everyone in here.”

 

When he says this, my blood pumps thick with something strange, and I tell myself it’s relief. After all, this arrangement will keep the exchanges between Peeta and me scarce, just as they are now. Which I love. Seeing his pretty but excruciatingly irritating face only at school is something I should be looking forward to.

 

_Should_ be.

 

Two weeks before the wedding, when the dresses, streamers, and tablecloths have been finalized, Peeta texts me about the cake. The design is set—he just needs me to bring in a fabric swatch for color-matching.

 

When I head to the bakery, the white-hot heat that normally licks its way up my stomach and cheeks at the sight of him is still there, but it's somehow far less violent. Instead, the disgust has faded to a dull prickling underneath my skin. I don’t know if it’s faded because I haven’t seen him in so long, or because of something else. My stomach reignites at the thought of what that _something else_ could be.

 

One of Peeta’s older brothers, Rye, is home from college for the summer—he’s the one working the register when I push through the entrance, the bell ringing its funeral march overhead. He narrows his eyes at my intrusion.

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he says, arms stiff at his sides.

 

I don’t have the same degree of beef with Rye as I do with Peeta, but there’s enough brotherly loyalty in the Mellark clan so that between the middle boy and me, there’s no love lost.

 

“I need to see Peeta,” I say, shoving my hand in my ratty messenger bag, fishing around for the fabric swatches. “Wedding business.”

 

Rye says nothing before disappearing into the back room. Now alone in the lobby, I pace back and forth, my gaze raking over the walls. My breath snags like a fishhook in my throat when my eyes fall on the first painting.

 

It’s a basic watercolor sunset—only the streaks of orange seem to rise off the canvas, pastel and gentle but somehow overwhelmingly radiant. The color, as if it has hands, reaches out to touch me, warming my skin. But whatever trance I’m in suddenly shatters at the sight of the watermark in the corner.

 

_P.M._

 

Shit. I’d forgotten these were Peeta’s paintings.

 

I tell myself to avoid the others, but my body doesn’t listen as it floats along the wall, eyeing the other paintings: hands kneading dough, an opalescent pearl perched on a cushion, a family of dandelions…

 

The hook in my throat sinks deeper at the sight of the next painting, which is tucked in the corner of the lobby. The runt of the litter.

 

It’s still breathtaking, even though the blending and the strokes are less confident, less practiced. The product of an inexpert hand. The coloring has faded, too, making me think it’s at least five years old, though probably several more.

 

But that isn’t what yanks the hook clean free, leaving my flesh raw and screaming.

 

The slope of her jaw begins at the top of the canvas, so the highest visible point of her face is the shadow below her nose. Underneath rests a pair of lips, full and parted slightly. The small chin casts an even smaller shadow over the collar, which leaps out from the sternum, begging the viewer to nourish her starved body. Right below this, the canvas ends. This sliver of the body is so intimate, yet rendered in a way that is far from erotic: Maybe it’s the way her palm rests over her emaciated chest in a breathless hunger, or the way her brittle, raven hair, gathered into a sloppy braid, curls over her shoulders slumped in resignation. Maybe it’s because of something beyond the painting, nestled in the perspective of the painter, who cries out for help on her behalf.

 

“You brought the fabric swatches?”

 

The voice behind me startles me, the words blurted in a hurried, anxious way that can only be meant to distract. I turn around, finding Peeta with flushed cheeks and wild eyes that scream, _You weren’t supposed to see that._

 

“You _painted_ me,” I accuse, thousands of different emotions chewing at me from the inside out. There are too many to distinguish, and so I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to feel.

 

He scratches the back of his head. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

 

Which means: _I painted you._

 

I take a step toward him. “You’re supposed to hate me.”

 

“I _do_ ,” he says without pause, his allegation layered heavy with a conviction that his eyes lack. “I—I painted that before I hated you. When we were hanging the artwork last year, Rye insisted on this. I don’t think he realized…”

 

I remember what he said about my singing, and how he loved my voice, which I couldn’t hold against him since that was before our falling out. But this is not like his memory of the Valley Song. Then, he was merely a spectator. Powerless. Passive.

 

But this is different. Painting me was a deliberate choice. This took time, energy, and intention. A vision.

 

I shake my head and repeat, softer this time, “You _painted_ me.”

 

He has nothing to say to this. He hangs his head. He palms his cheeks.

 

And suddenly it becomes all too much to process, the implications hanging over my head like a water balloon tethered to the ceiling by only a single string. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to do if that string breaks.

 

Not waiting to see if it does, I scrunch up the fabric swatches in my purse, yanking them out and shoving them against his abdomen. He flinches, but he takes them. The skin of his hands is hot.

 

“Just make sure the icing matches these,” I say before darting out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Come have a heart-to-heart with me on Tumblr at the-peeta-pocket.


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